The Long Road Home
by Junetis
Summary: Merlin is banished from Camelot as a sorcerer; this is just the beginning. When Uther dies several years later at the hands of renegade sorcerers, Merlin mysteriously returns... with danger on his heels. What his link to these renegades! Merlin/Arthur
1. Prologue

First ever Merlin fic, hope you like it! More to come.

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The throne room is silent with tense expectation; Arthur stands next to the throne and doesn't know where to look. He hears the guards before he sees them, boots thudding martial in the corridor, chainmail clinking with each step. He tries to brace himself but can't help the way his heart skips a beat when they come marching in, Merlin looking pale and alone between them. Uther shifts on his throne as they fling Merlin roughly down before him, face carved from stone and eyes harder still; the sound of Merlin's knees scuffing against the floor echoes accusatory and too-loud in Arthur's ears and he wants to turn away but forces himself to watch.

Arthur hasn't seen him since that moment when the chimera had burst through the windows into the hall, snarling and keening like nothing he'd ever heard before, that moment when it lunged unerringly straight for him, jaws gaping wide, nobles scattering shrieking to either side and his father rising horrified from his seat at the head of the table. Everything was chaos and onrushing carnage, and then Merlin was suddenly there between him and the monster, hand raised, something unintelligible tearing from his lips, and just like that, fast as it had come, the chimera was gone, enveloped in blue flame and burnt away to nothing; it was over before Arthur had the chance to do more than fumble hastily for the sword sheathed at his hip.

That scene that will stay with Arthur for a long time: the utter silence, a roomful of people staring dumbstruck at Merlin, even Uther shocked and frozen; Merlin turning slowly to face him. Arthur could still feel it, the breathless disbelief and giddy vertigo, as though everything he had ever known about the world had been yanked unceremoniously out from under his feet and he was still trying to find his footing. Merlin – hopeless, clumsy, irrepressible Merlin, who knew his place damn well but didn't care, who challenged him and pushed him and looked at him with that unwavering gaze that forced him to do the right thing – Merlin was a sorcerer. Dangerous. Treacherous. An enemy to the throne.

Most of all he remembers Merlin's face, a fragile mix of fear and defiance chasing across his features followed by a kind of weary acceptance, an acknowledgement that the game was up, everything laid bare. 'This is who I am,' his eyes were saying, and 'please' and 'I'm sorry' and 'you have to understand', earnest and pleading; there was so much more in that one look than Arthur could hope to decipher, and it felt like they stood there forever, for a lifetime suspended, but it only lasted an instant and then his father was shouting something and Merlin was surrounded by a ring of steel, guards closing in on him.

'Take him away!' Uther spat, and they did.

Arthur did not once look away, did not blink, did not breathe as Merlin was seized violently and dragged unresisting from the room, holding Arthur's gaze until he was forced finally from sight.

'To think that that boy was a sorcerer – your most trusted servant, all along, a snake in the grass,' Uther said with undisguised contempt. He laid one hand on Arthur's shoulder. 'I dread to think what he might have done to you if he hadn't been exposed.'

Arthur was dimly aware of the guests being shepherded out and servants gathering to clear away the mess and shattered glass, of his father conversing in low tones and issuing terse orders nearby, of Morgana standing by the far wall with her arms around a distraught Gwen; she speared him with a piercing look that he refused to meet. He turned on his heel and strode from the room, his princely demeanour of control all he had left.

Now he looks down at Merlin kneeling, head bowed, in front of him, hands bound in irons behind his back, and his throat closes up; he's still not prepared for this. It's been two days, two nights in a cell, and the time has not been kind to Merlin, staining deep shadows under his lowered eyes and leaving fine lines of tense vulnerability in the slump of his shoulders. Two days, and Arthur thinks he probably doesn't look much better himself. He's spent the time in conference with his father, listening to Morgana rail and rage against Uther's stony composure. Uther cut her down with words like 'order', 'law' and 'justice' when Arthur knew he was thinking 'sorcery', 'deceit' and 'evil'.

Arthur remained silent throughout, thinking instead of Merlin tackling him out of the way of a thrown dagger with impossible speed, the sudden weight of hands on his chest appearing from nowhere; thinking of Merlin unconscious on the floor of the hall, a poisoned chalice rolling out of his limp hand. He thought about a ball of blue light guiding him in darkness and a whirlwind rising from the dust and a mysterious tincture that brought him back from the brink of death. He thought about a thousand small things, a thousand little instances, and the raw edge of broken trust began to ease.

He realises now how long it's been since Merlin first came to Camelot. The months have crept up on him and so has Merlin, slipping under his skin by slow degrees until now, when Uther stares down at Merlin as though he's vermin, as though he'd like nothing more than to crush him beneath one booted foot, when he lifts an imperious hand and orders his execution, it strikes Arthur like a hammer-blow of loss. There is a palpable pause in the air as the words settle and harden into deafening silence: 'The penalty for sorcery is death; you will be executed at dawn.'

Sharp bars of light stream in through the windows, striping the shadowed room in black and white, stark and harsh as Uther's judgement. Merlin looks up, faces his sentence head on and doesn't flinch, just closes his eyes and sighs a little, as though it's a relief to finally hear it out loud. He bows his head as though in deference and suddenly Arthur just can't take it anymore. He crouches down in front of Merlin and grabs him roughly by the chin, forcing his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes for the first time in days. He's aware of the way Uther tenses and the guards' hands twitch on their swords but he doesn't care, too busy searching Merlin's face for a hint of something that will help him do what he knows he has to. Merlin looks back at him, calm and resolved, too proud to beg for his life, and Arthur feels his heart breaking; he knows he can't let it end this way.

He snatches his hand away, unaccountably angry, and whirls to face his father.

'Let me speak with him alone,' he bites out.

'Out of the question; that boy is a sorcerer, and he would kill you to save his own hide without a second thought.'

The slow burn of helpless anxiety that has been coiling in Arthur's gut for days constricts, fuelling his anger. 'He is my servant and my friend!' Arthur declares, jaw tight, and notes the way Uther's eyes light with disbelieving fury at that last word even as Merlin's head comes up, gaze level and intent. 'He has laid down his life for me more times than I care to count,' he continues. 'If he wanted me dead all he had to do was stand by and do nothing; he won't harm me now.'

Uther gives him a long look and Arthur stares him down, gathering all his regal certainty about him like a cloak, taking everything his father has ever taught him about royalty and throwing it down like a gauntlet at his feet.

'Very well,' Uther says at length, eyes flicking coldly towards Merlin and back, 'far be it from me to save you from your own stupidity. You have five minutes, that is all.'

Arthur stands silent until well after they're alone, back turned. He can hear Merlin breathing softly behind him.

'Get up,' he says quietly, listening for the rustle as Merlin obeys. He turns, eyes moving straight to where Merlin's arms are forced behind his back. 'Get rid of those restraints.'

Merlin hesitates, as though suspecting a trap.

'I know you can,' Arthur says. 'Get rid of them.'

'As you wish, sire.'

It's the first time Merlin's spoken, ringing painful in the empty space between them, cutting Arthur to the quick; he grits his teeth against the onslaught of Merlin's quiet, neutral tone. Merlin lifts his chin and holds Arthur's gaze determinedly as his eyes flash molten gold and his shackles clatter to the floor in brittle, broken pieces, hard iron sheared clean through. Arthur sucks in a breath and moves without thinking. He cups Merlin's chin, gently this time, and turns his head slowly to either side, mesmerised by the way his golden eyes seem to trap and hold the light. Merlin holds still for him, tensing only slightly under his hand.

'How do you do it?'Arthur murmurs.

'Do what?' Merlin asks, the smooth skin of his jaw tickling against Arthur's loose grip as he speaks.

'Your eyes...'

'I was born like this. I don't know why it happens, but it does.'

There's a challenge simmering somewhere underneath those words, but Arthur doesn't try and tease it out just yet. The gold glimmers and fades from Merlin's eyes until Arthur's left staring into a familiar blue, seeing Merlin underneath the sorcery, uncertain and hopeful. He realises that his thumb is stroking thoughtful patterns on Merlin's cheek; he lets his hand drop and steps away, begins circling Merlin, measuring him up as though gauging an adversary for combat. Merlin looks dead ahead and swallows, hands fidgeting awkwardly at his sides.

'You lied to me,' Arthur says, choosing his words as though planning a siege. He gives the apprehension a moment to settle in Merlin's eyes, to see if he'll mount a defence, but Merlin refuses to engage. 'You saved my life.' He stops in front of Merlin, gives him a hard look. 'Why?'

In reply Merlin just tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, stares at him as though he despairs of Arthur's idiocy, and just like that the stalemate is broken and the tension drains out of the room; just like that they fall back into their normal rhythm and Arthur feels himself relax and smile.

'Alright, maybe that was a stupid question,' he allows.

Merlin snorts. 'I really would be as bad a manservant as you say I am if I let you run off and get yourself killed.' He pauses carefully, weighing up the moment before he continues. 'And I'd be a worse friend.'

Arthur doesn't miss the emphasis; he glances away. 'Oh, you _are_ a truly terrible servant, make no mistake.'

Merlin's mouth twitches, but it is fleeting and regretful. 'As for the lies, well,' he gestures at himself with a humourless smile, 'we can all see how well outing myself turned out, can't we?' Arthur looks him up and down and has to concede the point; Merlin looks wrung-out and drained, a hollowness shadowing his face. Arthur wonders what it must have been like for him, caged alone in that dark cell, replaying the scene over and over in his head as Arthur had, the scene that had damned him, waiting for the guards to come and take him to his death. The thought stings and Arthur recoils from it, the guilty bitterness sharpening his voice when he next speaks.

'So you didn't think you could trust me?' he demands. 'What, you thought I'd just hand you over to be butchered?'

Merlin's silence speaks volumes and Arthur lets out a heartfelt curse, feels the nail driven home in his chest. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to compose himself. 'Honestly, I don't know what to think about this,' he says softly, voice rough, giving up the fencing and coming clean, 'but I do know that I don't want to see you dead.'

Merlin ventures a tentative grin. 'That makes two of us, then.'

'I can't overturn my father's orders,' Arthur tells him, and the grin vanishes from Merlin's face; he nods tightly. 'You know what that means.'

Merlin nods again. 'I know,' he says.

'Say it.' The command comes out harsher than intended and Arthur winces, but Merlin doesn't so much as blink.

'I have to leave,' he says calmly, only a slight catch in his voice.

'You have to leave,' Arthur echoes. He sighs, takes a deep breath to steady himself. 'Back in Ealdor, that was you.' Merlin's head dips fractionally. 'What you did there, that power... You've been in the castle dungeons for the last two days and yet you could have broken out and escaped at any time. Why didn't you?'

It's the one thing Arthur can't figure out in all this – Merlin has such power, why did he wait for two full days, wait for a prince who might now have despised him, for what could well be his execution?

'I had to know,' Merlin says seriously, eyes deep and honest. 'I had to know what you'd do.' Merlin steps forward suddenly before Arthur can take in the meaning of his words and drops to one knee in front of him. He takes Arthur's hand and brings it to his lips, brushes a kiss across the back of it.

'I'm your man, Arthur. I'm your man and I always will be,' Merlin swears, calling him 'Arthur' and not 'sire', pledging allegiance to the man rather than the title, and Arthur's heartbeat drags slow and heavy in his chest. 'Believe me,' Merlin pleads.

'I believe you.' Arthur knows as he says it that it's true. Merlin kneels before him in supplication, benediction, promising him forever, and Arthur realises that even now, maybe especially now, he trusts him implicitly and absolutely, with more than just his life. He doesn't know how it happened, how they came to this point, but it's far too late to look back now, so Arthur exhales a shaky breath. 'I believe you,' he says again.

Merlin makes a relieved noise and presses the back of Arthur's hand against his forehead, closing his eyes. 'This isn't how I wanted it to happen,' he says, pained and resigned. He looks exhausted, and Arthur wonders if he's slept at all in the past two days.

'Oh, and how did you think it would go?' he asks wryly, reaching out to ruffle Merlin's hair on impulse, and Merlin smiles almost despite himself.

'To be honest, I don't really know. I think maybe I thought I could keep on hiding it forever, and never have to face up to it.' He sighs heavily and looks up at Arthur. 'I never meant any harm, but I needed to be close to you, and I didn't think you'd understand.' He cocks his head, smiles sadly. 'Maybe I was wrong.'

Arthur snorts. 'You never did give me enough credit,' he says.

'What would you have done, if I'd told you?'

Arthur pauses, a realm of possibilities on his tongue, a thousand scenes playing out before his eyes; his heart aches suddenly with the weight of what might have been. 'Does it really matter now?' he asks.

Merlin takes a minute to think about it. He kisses Arthur's hand once more and Arthur's skin tingles under the dry roughness of his lips. 'No,' Merlin says at last and stands, 'I guess it doesn't.'

He's still holding Arthur's hand, and they just look at each other for a moment, the silence stretching out rife with words unspoken. Merlin's blue eyes are clear and bright with emotion, and he stands tall, proud, broken but not beaten; the light slanting through the narrow windows catches on his pale skin and in his dark hair, silvering his high cheekbones and lightening the shadows under his eyes. It's a beautiful sight, and it strikes Arthur low in his stomach, drives the thought home to him that Merlin is so much stronger than he could ever have believed. He runs his thumb gently over the back of Merlin's hand.

'Get out of here,' he says fondly. 'You always were a worthless scoundrel right from the start; don't know why it's taken this long to get rid of you.'

Merlin laughs; they both know what Arthur really means, and what he can't admit, certainly not here and not now. In a few years, perhaps, things might have changed, but right here in this moment they hold their tongues. Merlin pulls away and walks the length of the hall to the door, steps careful and unhurried. He lays his hands against the cool, dark wood and turns.

'I'll be back,' he promises, and the simple words are layered with meaning.

'I know,' Arthur says.

'Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone; if you're not alive when I get back I swear I'll drag you back from death itself to make you pay.' He gives him a lopsided grin. 'Who knows,' he says, and his eyes flare golden and brilliant in the shadowed hall, 'maybe I could actually do it.'

Arthur's breath catches in his throat, and that is the last he sees of Merlin – grinning like he always does, idiotic and fearless and so very _Merlin_, but with those eyes that burn with power and magic and secrets and all the things that Arthur never saw but should have known – before time seems to freeze and hold, and in an instant Merlin has vanished without a trace.

Doors that should not have been open swing slowly shut with a dull thump of finality. The sound of shouting and booted feet pounding on stone drift muted through the heavy doors. Arthur doesn't worry; there's no way they'll catch Merlin now that the gloves are off and all the pretences cast aside. He rubs at his temple with one hand and drags in a long breath, schooling himself to face his father. When Merlin comes back, he promises himself, not a doubt in his mind, he'll be ready.

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There you are! Please tell me what you think - but be honest. And also, use good grammar please! How can I respect your criticism of MY grammar if your's is crap!

Junetis :)


	2. Chapter 1: The Return

Mild autumn sunshine filters weakly into the hall, casting the long room in a pale, silver half-light that glints faintly from Arthur's crown as he sighs to himself and rubs at the bridge of his nose. The last of the people seeking audience file from the room as the guards usher them out; Arthur only does this once every tenday, throwing open the gates of the castle to let his people in to air their grievances before the Crown, but it takes a heavy toll on him nonetheless. Some disputes are easily settled and some help easily given to solve honest problems, but there are always those for whom he can do little – mothers with sick children who cannot understand that Arthur is not omnipotent and that there are limits even to Gaius' skill, farmers whose crops have failed in their fields and whose families are starving; Arthur has to send them away empty-handed: Camelot's stores are running far too low as it is after suffering too many near-empty harvests, too many spates of drought and flood by turns, as if the very kingdom itself is turning against them all (magic, his instincts tell him, evil), and it wears at him.

And there are also those, of course, who come to these audiences to hurl accusations, who cast stones of suspicion against their neighbours, naming them as sorcerers, conspirators, traitors to the Crown. Witch-hunts and paranoia: a poisonous remnant of Uther's reign. There is an ill feeling among Arthur's subjects, an unrest and unease that began to foster toward the end of his father's rule and which was not sated but only deepened by his sudden death – sudden _murder _– at the hands of renegade sorcerers. Arthur sees it brewing, feels it gathering like a storm on the horizon; along with the crown that weighs heavy at his brow and the throne which pens him in stiffly as he sits, he has inherited a far heavier burden of worry.

The ban on sorcery still stands. Just because Arthur once knew a man, a man who was a sorcerer and yet a loyal friend, a man whose name he hasn't heard spoken in years, a man whom he hopes just might still be out there, still alive – that cannot be allowed to sway his judgement in the face of all the sorcerers who have tried to kill him, overthrow him, end him, with poison and monsters and magic, sorcerers who murdered his father and who continue to bring evil down upon his kingdom.

'Your Majesty,' Sir Kay says, stepping forward, 'Gaius has requested your presence for the afternoon. He says he has made important progress regarding the poisoning of the water reserves in the western quarter of the kingdom.'

Arthur nods tiredly. 'I'll go to him in a moment.' He's still young yet, barely four and twenty, but at the moment he feels so much older than his years, and it's been far too long since he slept a whole night through. He stretches his legs, stiff from sitting for too long, and sighs again. He glances round the room at the mix of courtiers, knights and advisors who regularly turn out to watch the audiences take place, whether out of genuine interest or in an attempt to curry the king's favour; he notes Morgana standing at the back of a group of noble ladies, leaning against the wall. She raises a sardonic brow and gives him a thin smile. Gwen stands beside her. They both look as exhausted as Arthur feels.

He's just about to get to his feet when a sudden wind whips up in the still, dead air of the chamber, ruffling the heavy coats and cloaks of the courtiers and tugging at the ladies' dresses. Sorcery, Arthur thinks, it has to be, and he stills, paralysed, his hands gripping white-knuckled against the arm of the throne; for a moment it's as though he's back there – five months ago, or near enough – with his father's blood scalding hot on his hands and the acrid burn of sorcery on the air, the panicked rearing of horses and the shouts of men, but then a voice rings out, cutting smoothly over the hollow whistle of the phantom gale, and it yanks Arthur back to the present.

'Your Majesty,' it says, 'King Arthur, Lord of Camelot, a humble servant requests a moment of your time.'

There's a figure now standing in front of the closed doors to the throne room, face hidden beneath the cowl of his travel-stained oilcloak. The wind subsides to a gentle breeze that tangles around his legs, playing with the laces on his tall boots and chasing the hem of his cloak. There's no doubt about it: he's a sorcerer.

Arthur doesn't care. He stands, barely aware of the knights and guards leaping to attention all around the room, the ring of steel as their weapons are drawn. The rest of the room falls away to nothing, all his attention focussed on the man standing at the other end. His heart is beating too-fast and too-frantic and it makes him feel light-headed. He swallows dryly. He would recognise that voice anywhere, even after so long.

Arthur takes a deep breath and composes himself, schooling his face to impassive arrogance and regal disdain.

'Is that so?' he asks haughtily, fighting to keep the tremor and the hoarseness from his voice. He draws himself up to his full height, head up and shoulders back, and steps slowly, casually down the steps to the throne. 'A _humble_ servant?'

'At your service,' the figure says, sweeping a low and unmistakably clumsy bow, heedless of the ring of guards and gleaming halberds surrounding him.

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches upwards against his will. 'I don't ever remember you being 'humble',' he says, mock-thoughtful and grave. 'Insolent and disobedient, yes, but never humble.'

The figure cocks its head and Arthur can practically feel its grin. 'Maybe you were too busy being a prat to notice.'

There's a low, whispering murmur building in the room as the assembled nobles whisper nervously amongst themselves, all of them backed right up against the wall, as far as possible from the strange man; the noise erupts into a few outraged shouts at the sheer audacity of this man, breaking into the castle and insulting their sovereign. Arthur's knights look livid, an array of hard faces, cloaks thrown back from their armour and weapons at the ready; they keep glancing at Arthur, confused as to why he isn't angry or frightened or _doing_ something.

Instead, Arthur only laughs and gestures him on. 'Is that the best you can manage?' he asks. 'All these years and you couldn't even bother thinking up any new material?'

'I had other things on my mind,' the figure says dryly and takes a step toward Arthur. The guards tense, barring the way, but Arthur waves them nonchalantly aside.

'Let him come forward – I'd never fall prey to such an idiot.'

'Nor I to such an ass.'

Arthur can't stop his smile from breaking out as the guards back off reluctantly, trading looks of consternation, and the figure advances, thinking back to a similar exchange a long time ago in a very different setting, an echo of the past standing alive and just as infuriatingly irreverent as ever before him. His grin curls wide across his mouth, genuine and happier than it's felt in years. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Morgana staring at the figure intently, breathless, while Gwen has her hand over her mouth and looks like she might be crying.

'You dare mock your king before his subjects, '_humble servant'_?' Arthur asks, loading his voice with a sarcasm that is overwhelmed even to his ears by the underlying warmth.

The cloaked figure is almost within arm's reach by now, and Arthur can hear him chuckling, rich and clear. 'A king who can't take a little teasing isn't much of a king at all. Besides,' he adds as an afterthought, 'I guess servitude never really suited me that well.'

'On that we agree; you were a singularly useless manservant.'

The figure stops, just in front of Arthur. 'I hope I was a better friend,' he says, and removes his hood.

Arthur opens his mouth to speak but the words won't come – it's Merlin all right, all the familiar planes and angles of his face, his ridiculous ears, but he looks different, older and a bit more careworn in ways that Arthur feels sure he looks as well. There's a small scar at Merlin's temple above his right eye, curving down just to the side of his brow; his dark hair is longer and a touch shaggy, unruly as ever; his face looks stronger and leaner, as does the rest of him, some of his skinniness turned to muscle – he's still an inch or so taller than Arthur and still far more slender than him in build, but there's an air to him that might almost be competence, an ease of motion and a confidence that was lacking there before, and he wears the long hunting knife belted at his hip as though he might even know how to use it, though, Arthur thinks wryly, that might be a step too far.

It's his eyes, though, that are truly the same – blue and bright and hopeful – and the same lopsided curl of his mouth, every emotion worn plain on his face for anyone experienced enough in the mystery that is Merlin to decipher them. Arthur takes it all in, drinks in the sight of him, and his throat feels tight.

'Merlin,' he says, and a few of the people in the room exchange surprised glances, recognising the name. He puts a hand on Merlin's shoulder and squeezes, marvelling at the feel of him, solid and real and actually, finally _here_. 'Welcome back.'

Merlin smiles widely and his shoulders sag a fraction in relief. He reaches up and his palm closes around Arthur's – warm and rough, and the simple contact of it sends a tingle down Arthur's spine – and then all at once Merlin kneels, bowing his head over Arthur's hand. It makes Arthur feel strangely uncomfortable and off-balance – it feels far too intimate a scene to be performed before the crowd around them, the careful mirror of another private moment.

'I told you back then that I was your man, always,' Merlin says, and Arthur can hear the hoarseness in his voice, hear how hard Merlin's trying to keep it steady, to sound assured. 'I meant it then and I still do now. My life is yours to command.'

Arthur's heart is beating like a caged bird in his chest, choking him up with an emotion that he can't name and refuses to examine too closely, ill at ease with it all. 'Get up, Merlin,' he says gruffly, 'that's not necessary.' He clears his throat and looks away, just to the side of Merlin's kneeling form. 'I know,' he says quietly, and hopes that Merlin knows what he means.

He does – of course he does; the irritating fool always could seem to see right through any and all of Arthur's carefully-constructed fronts. He looks up at Arthur, briefly, and their eyes lock, and then he's standing and smiling his big ridiculous grin, and Arthur almost has to laugh at how familiar it all is, the way it feels as though their friendship could just pick up where it left off, as though Merlin had been gone for no more than an afternoon running errands for Gaius.

He claps Merlin on the back and slings a companionable arm around his shoulders. 'Why did you come back?' he asks, so many questions crowding on his tongue that he doesn't know where to start. 'Why now – why not sooner? Where have you been all this time? What have you been doing?' Merlin looks a bit perplexed at the onslaught, and Arthur reminds himself that in front of an audience of prying eyes and curious ears is not the best place to have this conversation. 'Come on,' he says, starting to guide Merlin toward the doors and signalling for his guards and tense knights to stand down, not caring about the confusion being left in his wake, 'we'll continue this in private – I'm sure you remember the way; we've got a lot to catch up on.'

He glances over his shoulder to where Morgana is giving him a questioning look and nods for her and Gwen to follow. Sir Kay is just moving forward to Arthur's shoulder, a frown on his face and looking as though he has a few choice words to say, when Merlin stops Arthur with a hand, suddenly serious, his expressive eyes nervous and shuttered.

'Sire,' he says, carefully formal, 'I'm not- I didn't... There's a reason why I came back. Another reason. It's not that I didn't want to come, because I did, I _did, _but...' He makes a frustrated noise and scrubs a hand through his hair, ruffling it and making it stick up at ridiculous angles. He looks apologetic and Arthur can't help but feel a stab of foreboding.

'There's something I have to say,' Merlin continues, finding his resolve. 'The truth is that I didn't come here only on behalf of myself.' He takes a deep breath, braces himself, and looks Arthur dead in the eye. 'I have returned here today on behalf of all my people, all the sorcerers of Camelot. I have something to ask of you. Please, Arthur, my King,' Merlin says, eyes earnest and pleading, 'set us free.'

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So there we go - this is pretty much the first _real _chapter, so please tell me what you think! Reviews are used as offerings to inspire the Muses ^_^


	3. Chapter 2: Fallout

Reactions, reunions and fallout in this chapter, but don't worry - the plot should kick in properly very soon, and of course the Merlin/Arthur relationship will start developing further. Hope you enjoy and please review! I like to know what you think ^_^

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The room is utterly silent following Merlin's dramatic plea, but the momentary peace doesn't last long; as though everyone in the throne room had been a taking a breath at the same time, they all let it out in a sudden uproar of outrage and shouting undercut by hushed and urgent murmurs. This would never have happened in Uther's court, a part of Arthur thinks sourly – they just don't fear him as they did his father. The rest of him is still stunned by the enormity of what Merlin's just asked of him, the position he's now been put in.

He doesn't really know how to feel about it. On the one hand, Merlin is a sorcerer, and he shouldn't have to live in secret, hunted, hated; on the other, magic has done him great wrongs throughout his life, just as many times as it has saved him. The law against magic is decades old. Arthur has lived with it for his entire life, grown up with his father's hatred and his strictures hanging over his head, and it has had ample time to seep out into the rest of the kingdom. And here Merlin is, asking him to flick it aside as though it means nothing and turn the entire order of the kingdom on its head. He feels a little torn, a little shamed, but mostly what he feels is _anger_ – anger that Merlin has left his side for so long, abandoned him while he was clawing desperately to keep his throne and his kingdom together after his father's death, when he _needed_ him, abandoned him for all his parting promises, and that when he finally comes back to him, to his rightful place, it is only to ask for _this._

The worst thing about it is the anxious sincerity in Merlin's expression, lip caught between his teeth, leaning towards Arthur as though to sway him simply with the intensity of his presence; the worst thing is that it could almost work.

Arthur looks around the room and reads the disquiet and discontent in all the watching eyes upon him, the ingrained wariness brought rising to the surface at every mention of 'sorcery', and now 'freedom' as well. They're all of them waiting to see what he will do, and not many of them appear optimistic or well-disposed; it's easy to see how his father had become so paranoid before the end, a paranoia that had proved itself justified with his murder.

Arthur grits his teeth and makes a decision.

'This audience is over,' he declares loudly, already striding across the room. 'I will retire to my chambers; you are all dismissed.' He nods at Sir Kay. 'Make it so.'

Merlin opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur cuts him off with a warning look.

'You always have to make trouble for me, don't you,' he hisses, taking Merlin by the arm as he passes and all but dragging him forcibly from the room without a backward glance. He releases him once they get out into the corridor and past a couple of turns, away from everyone except the servants about their business; he strides on past Merlin wordlessly, throwing him a look that dares him to not follow, and sure enough Merlin trails unresistingly after him.

The walk to Arthur's chambers is silent and strained, and everything about it just sets Arthur's temper burning shorter and faster, acutely aware of Merlin behind him, Merlin's eyes on his back. He throws back the door to his chambers and heads straight to the table where he knows a pitcher of wine will be waiting, as always, and pours himself a goblet, taking a long, immediate swallow. He slams it back down with more force than necessary and takes off his crown, tosses it carelessly down beside the goblet and scruffs a hand through his hair, glad to have the uncomfortable weight eased. He braces himself against the table for a moment, breathing and trying to force his anger back down. He glances back over his shoulder and sees Merlin hesitating over the threshold, looking around; he gives Arthur a faltering smile when he sees him looking.

'So you didn't move into your father's rooms, then,' he says, stepping inside at last, hands fidgeting awkwardly at his sides.

'No,' Arthur says shortly, jaw tight and back turned. He doesn't need to see Merlin's expression in the ensuing silence to know what it is – uncertainty, disappointment, desperation, all held in the downturn of his mouth.

'Arthur,' Merlin tries – and god, he's really _trying_, pleading voice, heart-in-his-mouth, all of it – and it's just too much; Arthur snaps.

'What were you _thinking_?' he snarls, whirling on Merlin. 'You couldn't have waited and raised the subject in private first before deciding to cause havoc in the middle of my throne room?'

Merlin swallows, sheepish. 'I, er, I'm sorry about that,' he says, at least having the good grace to look contrite, 'but it's something people need to hear.' His chin lifts defiantly. 'This can't go on; someone should have stood up and said that long ago.'

Arthur studies him carefully, his nervously clenched hands, the confrontational slant to his shoulders, the determined set of his jaw, Adam's apple bobbing with the motion of his throat. It's a familiar look for him; how many times have they argued just like this, Arthur thinks, how many times have they re-enacted this very scene in this very position but with different subjects, simpler questions? He moves away round the table, tapping his knuckles once to the hard surface, and gestures Merlin into a chair. He lifts his goblet for another sip, watching him over the rim.

'I can't repeal the ban, just like that,' he says.

'Why not?' Merlin demands, sitting forward in the chair, hands clasped earnestly in front of him on the table. 'It's the right thing to do.'

Arthur almost laughs at him. He wonders if everything really is that simple in Merlin's mind, so black and white, how easy it must make things for him.

'Because that's not the way the system works,' Arthur says with a tired twist to his mouth. He's become intimately acquainted with the runnings of the kingdom in the last couple of years and knows that little is accomplished without endless debates and complaints – in his experience people do not like decisive action, or at least his councillors don't. His father had always made it look so clear-cut and easy.

'You're the king,' Merlin points out, 'you can do what you like.' He raises his eyebrows in challenge and voices Arthur's thoughts. 'Uther did.'

Arthur almost snarls at him but bites down on it. 'My father always did what he thought was best for the kingdom,' he says instead, low and warning.

'What, murder and subjugation?' Merlin asks fiercely, leaning farther forward, daring.

'_Keeping order_,' Arthur snaps, anger spilling over. 'Putting a stop to people who threaten Camelot's safety.'

'People like me, you mean,' Merlin says, smiling faintly.

Arthur wants briefly to punch something, maybe Merlin, in his frustration, but instead he rubs wearily at the bridge of his nose.

'No,' he says quietly, struggling to regain his equilibrium, 'no, of course not. Not you.' He leans against the mantelpiece, staring into the dregs of his wine and trying to find the words to make Merlin understand.

'Look, Merlin,' he begins, not looking up, 'magic is dangerous. You've can't deny that – you know what it can do.' He flicks a glance in Merlin's direction. 'You've killed with it before. It's dangerous, just like any weapon, and though that doesn't make it inherently evil, I can't have it running loose in my kingdom.'

Merlin's mouth thins out and he stares up at Arthur unflinchingly. 'So the law will stand? And what about me, then? Are you going to execute me?'

There's no trace of nervousness in Merlin now, not in his steady voice or serious eyes; it drives Arthur to distraction the way he just can't stop pushing.

'Have you hit your head recently, or do you just become more stupid by the day?' Arthur asks in exasperation. 'I seem to remember already going through this conversation years ago.'

'If you keep the ban in place, I don't see that you have much choice. Didn't you always say that even a king cannot be above the law? Either you lift the ban or you abide by it and have me executed; you can't have it both ways.'

Arthur grimaces at the ultimatum, trying to think. 'I can give you an official appointment,' he suggests, knowing it's not the right answer, 'a sanctioned magician of the Crown and excepted from the ban, under my protection.'

Merlin barks out a harsh, humourless laugh and tilts his head. 'And what makes me so special, that I should get rewarded while everyone else gets the headsman's block?' he asks bitterly.

'For god's sake, Merlin,' Arthur bites out, 'why must you always be so _difficult_? I'm trying to save your _life_; do you live just to try my patience?'

Merlin's eyebrows rise. 'You patience?' he asks incredulously. 'Do you honestly think that this is about nothing more important than my _trying your patience?_'

'That's not what I meant,' Arthur snaps, 'and you know it.' He turns, paces a little, restless. Conversations with Merlin never turn out the way he means them to; whenever Merlin's around his temper always runs too high, turns too easily, and he can never find the right words. He feels all over the place, fighting to make himself understood and his emotions getting out of hand; he feels like a teenager again – that special ability of Merlin's to disarm him at every turn, take him constantly by surprise; he doesn't feel very much a king anymore.

Arthur sighs and looks Merlin in the eyes. 'You heard them all back there,' he says softly, 'you've been in Camelot, you must have seen it – the unrest, the fear. The people aren't ready for this.' He pauses and holds Merlin's gaze, weighing his thoughts, and his voice drops lower. 'Neither am I.'

Merlin's eyes widen a bit at that and he looks a little lost. He stares at his hands, swallows. Arthur stares at them too, long and slender, a faint and healing cut across one knuckle. He wants to cover them with his own, promise that everything will turn out alright; he wants to put his head in his hands and just not think about it. He's tired, so tired of this – fighting, struggling and getting nowhere, locked in endless arguments and words, words, words. This is nothing like the fighting he knows – steel in hand, blood and sweat and nothing to rely on but instincts and reflexes and a good weapon, with only two outcomes, victory or defeat. Kingship is a different kind of battle altogether.

Merlin looks up at him in the silence, throat working. It seems they've both run out of things to say, and that's the problem – Arthur has no answer for Merlin, nothing to say to him and no easy way out. He places his goblet on the table, the noise of it uncomfortably loud, and looks away.

When the door to the room slams suddenly open and Morgana barges in, Arthur can't even find it in himself to be annoyed as he usually is – he's just grateful for something to break the tension beginning to thicken in the air. He gives her a glare anyway, for form's sake, and moves to take up a place by the window, putting distance between Merlin and himself.

Morgana stands, brought up short, and stares at Merlin.

'You're really back,' she says, an odd look on her face. A frown creases between her brows and she opens her mouth to speak when Gwen appears in the doorway behind her.

'Merlin!' she gasps, hand over her mouth.

'Gwen!' Merlin's eyes light up at the sight of her and he stands, opening his arms as she rushes at him for a hug. 'It's good to see you,' he says, pulling her close, 'I missed you.' Arthur crosses his arms as he watches them, the stupid grin on Merlin's face, the way he softens around the edges for her; he feels uncomfortably voyeuristic even though he knows they're just good friends. He glances over at Morgana but she doesn't notice, staring at Merlin as though trying to work out a puzzle and failing.

Gwen buries her face in Merlin's shoulder for a moment before pulling back and smacking him round the head.

'Ow, hey,' he protests, still smiling.

'That's what you get for disappearing like that,' Gwen says, voice suspiciously thick and eyes a little red. 'We thought- I thought- We all thought you'd come back, after, but you didn't and we waited so long and you never sent word and...' She sniffs, shakes her head and smacks him again. 'You're an idiot.'

Arthur snorts. 'That's what I've been saying for years,' he drawls from across the room. Merlin looks up at him over Gwen's shoulder, meets his eyes for just a little too long.

'I'm glad you're back,' Gwen says. 'Things have been...'

'Yeah,' Merlin says roughly, glancing back up at Arthur.

'What happened to you?' Morgana asks, suddenly speaking up. She tries a smile but it looks off to Arthur, a shade uncertain.

Merlin is oblivious, blowing out a breath and untangling himself from Gwen. 'God, where to start? When I left, I-'

A sharp rap at the door interrupts him. 'Your majesty,' comes a voice through the thick wood, 'I must speak with you.' Arthur recognises it at once.

'Kay,' he greets as he opens the door. Kay bows briefly, mostly for the benefit of the others inside the room. He doesn't look happy; he looks, in fact, distinctly displeased, his jaw set tight and teeth practically grinding.

'A word, your majesty, in _private_,' he requests, grey eyes glancing past Arthur and fixing on Merlin, narrowed and unhappy.

Arthur tries hard not to sigh. 'Of course,' he says, 'one moment.' He gives Morgana a pointed look as Kay backs off to wait politely. 'You should follow his example – he _knocks_.' He closes the door to the sight of Morgana rolling her eyes and giving him a dirty look.

*******

Arthur feels better out in the corridor with the cool stone at his back, at least until he finds himself face to face with Kay's wary disapproval. He's a full head shorter than Arthur, and not as well-built, but Arthur pities anyone who underestimates his strength and ferocity, with or without a blade; Arthur doesn't relish the prospect of this conversation.

'What is going on?' Kay begins, straight to the point as ever. 'The entire castle's in an uproar, and after the scene in the throne room just now...' He raises a brow. 'Who is this man? He's clearly a sorcerer, and yet you welcome him.'

Arthur does sigh this time. 'Merlin's an old friend.' He snorts. 'Used to be my manservant, if you can believe that.'

Kay's mouth twists downwards, unamused. 'So you're in the habit of befriending sorcerers now?'

'I owe him my life, many times over.' Arthur injects a hint of steel into his voice and stares Kay down. 'I'm not going to execute him.'

'He's a lawbreaker by his very existence!' Kay exclaims in disbelief.

'And I should punish him for the way he was born? It's different with him, alright?' Arthur shifts uncomfortably, trying not to question his own motives too hard or ask himself just why it is that Merlin's so different, afraid he might find that he's being every bit the hypocrite that Merlin said he was. 'It's complicated, but I will not see him harmed.'

'And his 'request'?' Kay asks carefully, gaze steady.

'_That_ I am not at all ready to answer.'

Kay relents into a rueful smile. 'Good; at least there's one thing you're not being rash about. Shall I convene the council tomorrow for discussion?'

'See to it.'

Kay hesitates a moment, which is unusual for him. He fingers the stubble at his jaw and darts a glance up at Arthur. 'Have you considered the possibility that he may have enchanted you already?' he asks reluctantly.

Arthur's brows draw down at once. 'Merlin hasn't done anything to me, of that at least I am sure.'

'But how can you-'

'I am _sure_, Kay, and that is all you need to know.' He makes it clear from his tone that he considers the conversation over; Kay looks for a moment as though he might fight but thinks better of it.

'As you say, sire,' he says, unconvinced, and then, 'Gaius still needs to see you.'

Never a moment's rest. 'Of course. I'll be right there.'

'And if I may?' Kay asks. Arthur gives him a wry look that Kay acknowledges with a half-smile; they both know that Kay will probably say it whether Arthur wants to hear it or not.

Kay squares his shoulders and draws himself up to his full, unimpressive height. 'I think the sorcerer should be kept under guard.'

Arthur closes his eyes and rubs at the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. 'He's not our prisoner,' he says, 'I'll tell him not to go anywhere and sort him out later.' When he opens his eyes again Kay looks completely, suspiciously neutral, an expression that signifies complete disapproval. Arthur waves him off. 'Don't give me that look.'

'I'm just concerned,' Kay says honestly. 'This sorcerer shows up out of the blue in the middle of the throne room, no one knows who he is or how he managed to get past all the guards and straight to the heart of Camelot unseen, _insults_ our king and is welcomed for it. You have to admit – it doesn't look good.'

'I know. I know how it looks, but it's-'

''Complicated',' Kay finishes for him.

Arthur smiles tiredly. 'Right.'

'You,' Kay says after a moment's pause, shaking his head, 'are a troublesome king.'

Arthur laughs and claps him on the shoulder. 'I know. Give me a minute and we'll go see Gaius.'

'Yes, sire,' he says with resignation.

*******

Merlin starts when Arthur returns. He's sitting again, talking to Gwen and Morgana, smiling, though Arthur notes an edge to it.

'I need to talk with Gaius,' Arthur declares briskly. 'Morgana?'

'I'll come.' She sounds oddly relieved; Arthur nods his approval. Merlin stands as well but Arthur cuts him off quickly.

'Not you,' he says firmly.

Merlin frowns. 'But-'

'Stay here.' Arthur gives him a look that brooks no argument. 'You're not to leave the room until I return.'

Merlin stares at him, jaw clenched; Arthur can almost see the thoughts working behind his eyes. At last he back down with a jerky, insolent bow. 'Yes, sire,' he says stiffly.

Arthur feels a stab of something half guilt and half anger. 'Good,' is all he says.

'Gwen?' Morgana asks, looking to where Gwen's still standing close to Merlin.

'I'll stay with Merlin for a little while,' she says, smiling over at him. Morgana nods but doesn't look happy about it – the ghost of a frown is still there, that odd expression whenever she looks at Merlin.

'Alright,' she says. 'Arthur, let's go,' and sweeps out of the room before him as though she were a queen and he her servant.

Arthur glances instinctively back to Merlin with a raised eyebrow and they share a quick grin before they remember themselves. Arthur gives himself a mental kick; it's far too easy to forget that things are more complicated now and he can't afford to treat Merlin with the same ease he always has, not until this is settled and they know where they stand again. He leaves the room and tries not to make it seem like a retreat, the weight of Merlin's regard heavy between his shoulder-blades the whole way.

He strides down the corridor with Morgana and Kay to either side, all of them grim with the thought of poisoned water reserves and whatever it is that Gaius might have found. Arthur finds it hard to concentrate on what Morgana and Kay are saying as they walk – he does his best to put Merlin out of his mind for a while, focus on the other problems at hand, but it's not as easy as it should be. He's angry and frustrated, with both Merlin and himself; he has a kingdom to run, a kingdom that's falling apart and slipping through his grip, and all he can think is that Merlin's finally back, and despite the trouble he's brought with him, all Arthur can really feel about it is relief.


End file.
